Go figure...why do I get the runners? Why can't I ever have a straight up fight with anyone...?

Tristan shook his head and broke out into a dead run after the nearest of the three 'druids', a title which he was having serious doubts about considering their current actions. All bark and no bite generally meant a lack of even a demon to support actions. Just a bunch of charlatans, breaking and running now that their hold over the people was broken.

(OOC: Charging at the nearest 'druid', intend to tackle if/when close enough.)

Two and half weeks south of Ganse, still over a week of hard travel away from Jantir's environs, and the Great Southern Sea.

A Black-Crowned Eagle, perched far above the valley, watched the landscape below, as it greedily eviscerated a Berry Rat.

The only thing moving in the vastness of the Ethddos Valley were two black specks, barely larger than the countless frost-split boulders that covered the valley floor, inching along a faint track. The Ethddos Valley was the main and central feature of the otherwise featureless Rainlands. A ‘place-in-between’, as the pilgrims who trekked south to Jantir often called these lands.

The valley was a desolate place, devoid of trees for the most part, laughing winds lashing the terrain without compassion and whispering amidst the rocks and high grasses, and the cries of the black-crowned eagles, the Lords of this lonely stretch of land, echoing from the nearby cliffs.

The figures, on horseback, were approaching the valley’s southern end, and soon would be in warmer climes, merely three or four more days of travel, until they would reach the Empire’s southern swathe, find a proper road, and then proceed to the great capital of the Empire, Jantir, City of Thousand Surprises.

This was nearly the last stage of their journey from the faraway and decrepit town of Ganse. Both men spoke little, if at all as they rode, both lost in private and foreboding thoughts.

Two weeks earlier, though it felt like months now, the Triguians had dealt quite deftly with a local cult lord, a deranged man, and his cronies, in the miniscule hamlet of Bayle’s Root. Having found the local temple to Trigu abandoned, and worshippers of a sham god conniving the populace, the two holy men had in short order vanquished the miscreants, and rode off once more, promising the villagers, that priests of Trigu would return again and warning them of false gods and cults, even as the screams of Dalharad Root-Lord’s devotees echoed in the night, left as they were, by Adan and Tristan, to villagers own devices and brutal brand of peasant justice. Rancis himself, the cult leader, had his tongue torn from his throat by Adan, harshly rebuked by Tristan, and left to rot, having broken his leg in his initial flight from the charging Adan. Tongueless, as Adan explained to the populace, Rancis would no longer be able to call men to his word, and with a broken leg, he would not get far regardless. As Adan and Tristan rode off, they could see Rancis, crawling on his belly, and blubbering, blood gushing from his mouth. The villagers would soon get to him too, after first dealing with the man’s followers.

But that was two weeks ago, and now the holy men, sat and huddled, as they camped down for the night, beneath the stars and away from the wind, using several boulders and a hodge-podge, makeshift wall of grasses, roots, and desiccated branches as a temporary lean-to.

Who would speak first? Tristan wondered silently, as he himself was still haunted by his own sister’s inglorious and needless death. He had taken her horse, a spirited if bony steed, though at first, he had not wanted to. Adan had pointed out the harsh and bleak terrain the pair still had to traverse, and finally Tristan relented, and mounted the mare, riding it charily these last few weeks, as was his wont.

For his part, Adan was seemingly lost in his own shadow. He had spoken even less than the recalcitrant Tristan had, since the two left Bayle’s Root behind. What thoughts simmered beneath those heavy brows, Tristan could only guess.

The two looked up briefly as thunder sounded overhead. Above and beyond them arose storm clouds the color of iron.

They were not far now from the warmth that the Southland and the Sea would offer, but alas, they were far enough yet. At least it wasn’t raining this past day, a rarity in the Rainlands, but soon it seemed, the rain would come once more.

The Black-Crowned Eagle, having finished eating its lunch, grew bored of staring at the trespassers below and flew off into the deepening gloom.

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

Tristan eyed the landscape ahead of Adan and himself, watching for trouble of any sort, but also enjoying the view of the broad creation that Trigu had blessed mankind with. A vague thought about some sort of old book passage he had read once came to the forefront of his mind. To everything there is a purpose. For man and woman, dominion over the world, as well as worship of Trigu. For animals, to provide both companionship and food for man. For nature, to be beautiful and bountiful. Even this desolate location was beautiful in it's own way, though most would be hard pressed to find anything beyond rock and dirt within this valley. His gaze drifted to the traveling companion, as brooding as ever.

Adan was a mystery to him. He professed faith and was eager, nay, zealous in his drive to enforce the Trigium's dictates, even among those who really shouldn't be held accountable for their violations. Which wasn't to be blasphemous and promote laxness in spreading the faith, but the difference was as clear as night and day to any of Trigu's servants. Conscience and a sound mind were gifts from the Highest, to be used and allowed to guide your life. But Adan seemed to lack that conscience. He was overzealous, forgetting Trigical principles of love towards even those who forsake Trigu and the Way.

It had gone on long enough, especially with what he had done to that poor fool back in Bayle's Root. He would speak to him, and lightly probe the extent of the paladin's soul. Then, perhaps, he could help to get him back on the proper path. Tristan motioned to gain Adan's attention.

"Brother, we need to talk, both about your actions back in Bayle's Root and about yourself. I am concerned about your spirit."

For the fallen one's part, the barren clime here could be but a mirror upon the empty soul. And so it was that he had ridden through it, doing little more than staying erect in his saddle, nudging his horse hither and yon as it was required by the poor trail, while his mind sought its endless loop of despair and necessity, running laps around the course that it could see no alternative to.

Sitting within the lean-to, his muscles still tired from the effort of erecting it, he would alternately stir the cook pot, and turn over the holy symbol strung from his neck, dark and black as the setting sun, his thoughts never leaving that single course. Perhaps he would find something new this time. Perhaps. Spoken to, however, his eyes finally rose, his face looking in the direction of the priest, though they remained unfocused, as if not even looking at the man.

"Speak, then. You are not the only one who dislikes what I have done," Adan said, his voice flat and barren, seemingly devoid of life itself, and his eyes empty of hope.

Blorp, glop. Yes. The quiet, mechanical effort of cooking. It was only too bad it tasted like it was cooked by an automaton.

"Did you not think of the example you would set, that it was not one of Love and Redemption?" The voice of the brother was soft and low as he spoke, commanding both attention and thought. After all, one who has simply strayed might be cajoled back to the path without terrible punishments.

"I know my example is twisted. If it were not, I would not journey at all." Adan taps the blackened symbol at his chest, then, as he continues, "My way may be lost, but I remember well the venom of the viper," his voice also soft and low, but strained with a sorrow, a grief earned in some other time and place. For a moment, those circling thoughts of sin and sadness narrowed tighter, the worst of times remembered.

Tristan's response would be an odd mixture of rebuke and curiosity, driven to plumb the depths of this well in the service of Trigu. "If you know your example is twisted, why do you permit yourself to behave as if it is not? Expediency is not an excuse for cruelty."

A low, deep sigh from the son of nobility, as he closed his eyes from their empty stare into the cook-pot. "No, it is not. And I have no pride in what I have done. But there was a need for action, and I acted... and once again, I have failed." The ghostly memory of a scream tearing through ears, though the screamer now lacked voice, a taunting, mocking voice, these would be things that would haunt Adan this night.

And here, the cleric's tone would nearly match the paladin's in its sadness, empathy for what was lost, though once more, he would choose the opportunity to teach. "Failure in itself is nothing to be ashamed of brother. We each are mortal, committing ska every day. Yet to fail to learn from our failures, to improve ourselves, that is when we become fallen."

A flicker of hope, for a moment, would show in the eyes of Adan, before he his hand drifted once more to his symbol, his eyes suddenly dimming, and a haunted look coming across his face, as another memory reached out for him. The pain of loss, of infinite loss and rejection, from one more honored than any other. "I would learn, Brother, but I fear I will need instruction once more... And you do not understand, Brother, by what I mean by fallen. I am not a Brother of Trigu, sent to minister His people and tend their wounds. I am a knight, and for a time, I was His sword when the shadow threatened. But I have committed a great wrong, and I have been cast down, and stripped of the light which I wielded in His name. He has darkened His symbol, and given my wrong life. That is what I mean by fallen. And I know not how to arise again, for I am surrounded by shadow."

Quiet determination eminated from Tristan now, as he made his resolve to right this wrongness, to restore what he could to this fellow servant. "Then allow me to help you. Trigu is merciful, though often it is looked past in favor of domination through rules and punishments, he will forgive even the worst of ska."

"Then help me, Brother, for I need it greatly." There would be no petulance in Adan's response, his low baritone dominated by sorrow, tinged with contrition.

"I shall. Keep in mind that it will not be an overnight change, for habit is hard to break. Even so, we shall work together to raise you back to the ranks of the righteous."

"For that, Brother, I thank you. Little which is truly rewarding is without cost." And with that, Adan pulls the ladle from the stew, peering at it intently, before pointing with it at Tristan's bowl, asking the obvious. Well, at least it will be edible. Mostly.

The priest raised his bowl towards the ladle and nods his head in both aquiescience and thanks. "We'll start tomorrow then."

And so the next day came, and the two Triguians rose with the sun, quickly packing their belongings and moving south once more through the desolate Ethddos Gorge. As they traveled they conversed, but soon grew silent, as the wind picked up, lashing the terrain and drowning out their speech. Many hours later, as day turned to dusk once more, the two travelers could spy green hills on the southern horizon, the end of the endless gorge, and the end of the Rainlands. Beyond those verdant hills, both men knew, lay civilization, the border villages, and the Road to Jantir. Once more they settled down for the night. It was cold, winter loathe to give up its reign, and as Adan cooked , smoke rising from the meager campfire, Tristan listened to the winds and tethered the horses.

“Aye” the second figure remarked, as he kicked the ashy embers of the Triguians campfire. “But Gorodjur ordered no looting and no killing. The traveling pilgrims are not to be molested..”

“Gorodjur is deep in his mead cups, and preparing for Snowmelt. He would not find out.” garbled a third figure, and smiled, exposing yellowing tusk-like teeth.

“And busy fuggering your sister too, Yoord” A fourth spoke now.

At these words, Yoord bull-rushed Mrok without warning, tackling his fellow behemoth, as the two proceeded to wrestle and punch each other nearly senseless.

“Hold!” the stern, gravelly voice of a fifth figure ordered, and the two combatants looked up momentarily, though still grappling, and trying to gain the upper hand on one another.

“We will kill these two. No one will miss them. We will roast their horses too.” The Leader calmly remarked, and patted a sixth figure on his bald head. This last one was on all fours, with a great iron chain collar around his neck, the leash held tight by the speaker.

At this the four figures surrounding their leader, grinned. Even Yoord and Mrok forgot what they were fighting about momentarily, and looked up at the hulk. .

It was wise to heed Brown Borgradoc, they all thought in unison. He let them do what Gorodjur would not.

"And we will see. Perhaps they carry the Stolen Egg." growled Brown Borgradoc. "Or perhaps they are spies of the Wyrm-Brothers." the near-giant concluded.

"Holy Men fight hard" Young Dumjakk, one of the six, observed out loud, but his companions had already move on.

Tristan drew first watch, as Adan finally dozed off sometime after midnight. At least that is what Tristan assumed, but sleep did not come to Adan easily. He thought of his brothers that night. Images of his kin came unbidden in a kaleidoscope of blurred visions. Everything was colored red and black in his nightmares.

Tristan rose to stretch and heard the feint bark of a dog, somewhere far away. Was it the wind? Was it a bark? It seemed so, and it was not so strange, perhaps. After all, as the two Triguians were told back in Ganse, many folks were currently making pilgrimages south to Jantir, in honor of the Great Symposium.

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

The howl of the wind, the twisted flames of a burning manor house, the shadows of evil. Was it truth? Was it illusion? Was it dream? Was it life? Or eternal punishment? The fallen knight could not, and likely would never know. All he knew as he wandered through the twisted, hellish landscape was the blade at his side, the ancestral longsword of his family, whose very name they bore. "Brightblade". And as the skittering sounds of hellish laughter echoed in his ears, his hands would tighten about the hilt, even as he crept forwards... into wakefulness once more, as he surged upwards in a tangle of bedroll, his hand lunging for the comforting, worn leather hilt of his own sword.

As his sweat dripped from his face, and his open mouth gasped for breath, he shifted uncomfortably within his nightclothes. No, he'll not be getting back to sleep. Perhaps steel and the watch would comfort him, though it was not quite yet his turn.

Tristan made another circuit around the small campsite, eying the area around the campsite. As near as he could tell, there was nothing and no-one else in the desolate gorge with them. He sat down next to the fire, stoking it carefully to keep the flames from dying and leaving the pair of them in the cold. His mace felt heavy on his belt, and his mind began to ponder a thought that had come to him as he was discussing something with Adan earlier in the day.

A mace was as much of a weapon as a sword or axe, with no sort of redeeming quality, no other use but killing. Common opinion held that Priests of Trigu should not wield a sword or other bladed weapon, because they were weapons of war, with nothing else to their use. Yet for some reason, maces were considered very much allowable, ostensibly because they did not slice into flesh and draw blood with a cut. Yet his own fighting experiences had instilled in him a healthy respect for the weapon he wielded, and the damage that it could do to even those in armor. Perhaps when he got to Jantir, he would sell the weapon and find something else to defend himself with. After all, it might even help preserve his image and duty as a healer and helper, instead of as a fighter.

Adan jerked up from his bedroll, startling Tristan half to death. "What is it brother?"

Adan stood steady, inhaling and exhaling the cold near-morning air. He was clad in his mail, still alert, from the hour he rose to take his watch vigil. He glanced briefly at the sleeping form of Tristan. Soon he would wake the young priest, and they would continue their sojourn, and their intense discussions.

Adan looked up suddenly as he heard the shrieking of eagles directly overhead. He momentarily spied a clutch of the regal black-crowned birds in the slowly greying sky, famed throughout this desolate gorge as the masters of this forlorn domain. There were too many, he thought confused.

A second later a strange sound, a swishing noise, and then something dark smashed against the fallen knight, exerting tremendous pressure, and pushing him to the ground with considerable force. Adan rolled almost instinctively, but felt something clutching his body, latticework or ropes of some kind, slowing his movements and keeping him prone.

In a moment it all became apparent to the Triguian. Some huge net of fibrous heavy rope-work was dropped from the sky upon him, and the now waking Tristan, keeping both men pinned to the earth, with prehensile strength, weighed further down, as Adan quickly noticed while turning to his side, by sacks of rocks or some other loaded weight, at the outside edges of the huge net.

The two Triguians briefly made eye contact. That was the same moment that they both heard the unmistakable whistling of bolts, streaming through the air, serenading the otherwise silent morning. The eagles were further along now, flying away. There must have been five or six of the great creatures, but they seemed to be departing.

The first bolt landed a half foot from Adan’s head. The second missed him entirely. The third hit home, entering the back of his calf in a searing jolt, penetrating deep. The fourth missed Tristan, the fifth did not, going through his hand, and impaling his palm to the ground.

The men could now hear half-growls, half-speech coming from somewhere nearby, and getting closer. Whoops and hollers of sorts, but gargled with phlegm.

The horses meanwhile, Tristan noticed, had begun braying loudly. Another net, though the creatures still stood, was dropped upon the steeds from above at the same time apparently as the men were trapped as well. The horses tried to rear, but then stopped struggling, nervous, but still.

“Oyshhturs” came a harsh, guttural snarl, then...”Fire”

Adan and Tristan could hear crossbows reloading in the distance now.

<OOC> some was rolling involved, like ‘surprise’, now it is your initiative. Your move.</OOC>

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

It was for the briefest of moments that Adan cried out with the pain of the bolt lancing through his limb, but an even briefer moment before his soldier's mind began to clamp down on the thoughts of pain. Now was the time for action, to save the Brother of Trigu, not to roll in self pity. It would be with all his strength that he would try to pass over his shield, under the net. "Raise the Guard of God, Brother, and protect us!" he would bellow, even as he twisted away to try to stab at the weights underneath the net, to release them, trusting the priest to brace with the shield and follow, hopefully shading them both from the worst of the barbs. And as he crawled, he raised his voice, lifting his lips in the direst sounding chant he could remember, a hymn of mourning and vengance in the ancient tongue. It might not be quite perfectly pronounced or correctly musical, but it certainly sounds like a horrible curse.

(OOC: Muro, the crawl from the net-and-loose-the-weights plan. Plus intimidate check, with approximately a zillion situational modifiers.)

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

The priest of Trigu was caught completely by surprise, his hand pinned to the ground by a stray missile. A gasp of pain made its way through his throat and lips to the outside world, but he jerked his pinned hand away from the ground, adrenaline masking any pain from self-inflicted damage. He grabbed Adan's proffered shield, raising above the warrior in the hope of keeping him alive long enough to escape this fibre trap. "Cut..quickly brother..."

Adan scrambled as best he could toward the edge of the great net and salvation. The bolt in his calf caused him considerable pain, but it would be nothing, he quickly realized, compared to the barrage yet to come.

Tristan, at that same moment, was dealing with his own wound, bravely, the only way he knew how. Ripping the bolt free from the ground with his free hand, he winced as he tried to pull his ravaged hand up and through the steel bolt. After several agonizing moments, he succeeded, but now his left hand was torn and bleeding even more profusely.

Ignoring the searing sensation, the young priest went for his shield, and having secured it, and having managed to raise the shield to the proper angle, despite the weight of the net exerting pressure from above, began to crawl toward Adan, attempting to provide cover.

Adan meanwhile had used all of his strength to wedge his own shield above his body and below the net.

And so, like wounded warrior-turtles, the pair of Triguians crawled toward salvation, or death, whichever came first.

Tristan was mouthing words of prayer, but suddenly paused as he heard the booming voice of his companion, rising and echoing through the gorge.

The words were ancient, the prayers were grim, and Tristan was not sure of their purpose, but he could do naught but admire the ‘fallen’ knight, as they both crawled, for it was not the words, which Tristan immediately recognized, but Adan’s voice, which seemingly thundered, despite their physical predicament. The man, Tristan realized, was singing.

As the orisons of Trigu’s old tongue resounded, the whistling bolts came again, already having been loosed, and several sank into the ground around the Triguians, with muted thuds, several, but not all.

Adan had reached the edge of the net, and began feverishly working the attached weights, his powerful baritone still echoing across the valley. Tristan had propped the shield defensively, and nearly managed a smile, as he witnessed Adan successfully cutting through the net and loaded sacks. Just a few more seconds, Tristan thought...but just then, bolts struck the shield with loud “thwoots”, two or three, Tristan could not be sure. He peered out once the barrage had subsided, and now saw Adan lying nearly prone, while clutching his own neck, as blood pumped out, splashing across Tristan’s face as well. It must have been a terrible wound, Tristan thought despite himself. He had noticed now, that Adan had managed to sever the necessary cords and weights, and freedom was now only a few feet away.

“No” came the reply from Brown Borgradoc, “Priests” he spat the word more than said it.

“Has he cursed us?” Dumjakk looked terrified.

Brown Borgradoc did not reply at first, which made his five companions fidget and bulge their eyes even more. Instead the leader of the humanoid gang, stared at the two adversaries, then made a decision.

“Put down the crossbows. Come” he waved his hand and strode forward toward his captors, who were now crawling out from beneath the net. One of them, Brown Borgradoc noticed however, was in a bad way, blood spurting from an artery. This one would soon be dead, Borgradoc thought to himself. And before the man died, Borgrdaoc wanted to know what foul curse or sing-song magic the man had used against him. He had to know.

The six Verbeeg slowly approached the pair, weapons ready.

“I hit him, look! I hit him in the neck!” chortled Yoord, as he neared

“No, it was me, you dogs**t! Came Mrok’s voice now.

“It seems it was both of you” Borgradoc said amused, as he noticed two bolts had somehow found exposed flesh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Adan was writhing now, rolling on the damp earth, silent, despite the terrible wounds. Tristan tended to his friend, but quickly looked up to see six humanoids, gangly and ugly, some seven, some eight, and some nine feet in height, armed to the teeth, casually approaching the pair.

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

Borgradoc stared down at the two travelers for a moment, letting apprehension fill the men before he spoke:

"Mrok, Yoord - grab the one what's not yet spilling his blood. Dumjakk - secure the horses. We'll eat well tonight." With that, Brown looked at the fallen man once more before shifting his head to glare at the other priest.

"Now," he snarled, "You're going to tell me what that dog did to us, or I'll have Mrok and Yoord tear you apart. And they're been arguing all night, so believe me, they'd like nothing more than to see who could tear off the biggest chunk." He turned his gaze back to the other man, his snarl spreading into a grin.

"Unless your friend can still talk, that is. In which case perhaps he'd like to spare you the trouble and tell us himself."

Tristan had dropped Adan's shield in favor of tending for the dying priest. This isn't his time, is it Master? If it be within your will, heal his wounds. He was just beginning to return to your service. Please, let your mercy fill his life and heal both body and soul. He swatted Adan's hands away from the crossbow bolts and pulled them out gently, so that the flesh could close. Sure enough, once the missiles were removed, the blood stopped flowing and the empty wounds refilled with healthy flesh. He might have trouble breathing for a bit, and he would certainly itch horribly, but Adan was no longer in danger from his wounds.

The same was not true about the creatures that were now coming towards them. If he didn't do something quickly, they would both be dead before the sun rose on this campsite. Trigu give us protection and strength...

"Stay where you are, or you'll have worse than what he did to you on your heads. The Bright and Shining One takes none too kindly to those who harm His own."

(OOC: Roll for healing check last night was 5 according to Muro, and Tristan is bluffing like no other. With luck, they'll leave the pair of them alone for fear of divine wrath. Or wrath in general, depending on whether they recognize the reference to Trigu or not.)

(OOC to Muro: Do they count as evil creatures? Smite might be a valid option there, in lieu of Holy Weapon. Did we ever decide what the bonuses there were?)

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

Lord, I am not worthy of your touch, but say the word, and I shall be made whole once more in your Light. As the touch of the Creator's hand caressed his wounds, and mortal ones cleared the path for the Lord of All, the twitching of the fallen knight eased, and once more, his lips began to move, though silently, barely visible through the slot of his helm, while bloody hands swiftly etched the sigil of Trigu into the ground in their own life's humors. It was slowly that he arose to a crouch, making the smallest of gestures back into the rocks to the Priest. They would need to flee into them, and use terrain to their advantage, rather than try to fight these beasts in the open. And even as he gestured, his lips continued to move, blood rolling from them beneath his helm, a dreadful sight indeed.

And then, the sound began once more. Weak, and hoarse at first, but increasingly strong and exultant. Into my hands I give mine life, my Lord, my immortal soul. Let them be used for thy glory, as it was and should have always been. And so sang out that song of dreadful promise and exultation once more, redoubled in its zeal by the warrior's brush with death, while he rose to a ready crouch, his body twisted to pounce, one hand wrapped tightly around the leather bound hilt of his sword, the other low and touching the small puddle of blood-mud beneath him.

For the briefest of moments, the fallen paladin's voice became still, before speaking in its quiet, rough tone. "It is very simple, bandit. It is praise to the Greatest for His power to do whatever He pleases to His enemies." A pause, a thought. "The gold is in my wallet. Had you asked for it, we would have provided it."

<OOC> Bluff successful on 2 of 6 Verbeeg. Also, Adan's blood-spewing diurge and now, calm, grim, demeanor, helps a bit too. 2 of six look as if they are seriously contemplating the wisdom of this attack.</OOC>

If Borgradoc sensed some uneasiness behind him, he did not show it. The one Brown Borgradoc had called Ubu, the Verbeeg with the chain and collar, had a fanatical look upon his face, a dog, leering at Adan, licking his bulbous lips, and merely waiting for his master's word to attack.

Mrok and Yoord stood steady as well, looking down on Tristan and inching closer, at their leader's previous command and taking measure of the man. Quiet Lame-Face and Dumjakk however who were near the horses, both still holding their crossbows aloft, looked like they wanted to be anywhere but here. They truly seemed as if they feared the priests.

Tritsna and Adan meanwhile, breathing heavily and staring defiantly up at their attackers, sensed something was off almost suddenly. Even in his dread state, blood congealing along the sides of his armor in the crisp morning air, Adan was confused. The voice of Brown Borgradoc was somewhat soothing. Bizarre and impossible! Adan thought, despite himself, he almost respected and admired the mishappen giant! How could he feel this way, if not because of some foul sorcery? Adan's mind raced as he stood stoically. Tristan likewise, was not betraying any emotion.

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

"The saddlebag of the black stallion. You'll find a purse of silk, along with a flat case. The purse is yours." Adan's voice now was perfectly level, almost completely emotionless, even as he glances downwards, to where his hand was still wrapped around the handle of his blade. Trigu, protect your followers. A moment's thought, and a single finger left the sword, while the other hand withdrew the ring from it, flipping it into the dirt at the giant's feet. "That, too." Meanwhile, a concious effort would wrap his fingers tighter around the blade, still coiled to strike if necessary.

The ring itself? A golden signet, bearing the mark of a shattered sword. Inside, etched in a delicate script, 'Adan, Verwandewürger.'

The verbeeg grinned, his eyes darting about the area, as if searching for anything else of value.

"Dumjakk, grab the purse. Make sure the gold's actually in it. Mrok - you get the ring." The victorious grin faded slightly as Brown pointed his crossbow at the swordsman. "I'm willing to let you keep it, but I'd really recommend that you either put that sword down or back away from the ring. I wouldn't want Mrok to feel worried, y'see?" Yet, even as he kept the weapon aimed at the warrior, his eyes shifted back and forth, from his target to the horses, and back. He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, before speaking once more: "We're not so bad. Hunh, we'll even let you keep your horses, on one condition - after we leave, you two forget all about us."

Borgradoc turned his attention back to the swordsman. "So, are you going to be keeping those horses, or are we going to have a big dinner tonight?" He growled. "And make up your mind quickly; I don't like standing in the rain."

Tristan had noted the level of what in another time and another place would be called 'twitchiness' within Adan's actions and words, like a river just barely held in check. If he didn't say something soon, Trigu's Gates would admit two more before the sky lightened enough to see the blood-soaked ground.

"You can consider yourselves free of our attention unless this sort of occurrence happens again. We'll be gone before the sun is o'erhead." He laid his hand the one on Adan's hilt, and spoke softly. "Relax brother. Do not provoke further violence. Their blood-stained hands will get their just reward, eventually."

Is the purse there? Of course. Why would Adan lie? Speaking of which... "I -" And cut off by his own 'brother', the knight simply fell to tight lips, his sword slowly sheathing itself, though a hand would not move far from it as he straightened, and took a step back, a studious neutrality falling across his face. I will not vow to bear false witness. I will NOT. Still, his voice remained still and silent for the moment, allowing the priest to guide him for the moment through this minefield. Had I the strength... But nothing to betray that thought, for the moment.

For a few moments a standoff. All were silent for several seconds, only the buzzing of the rain in the great desolate valley, then Borgradoc grunted, his lackeys took their prizes and slowly still facing the the Triguians, the Verbeeg increase the distance between them and their marks. Adan's expresion was unreadable, his eyes slits, his mouth closed tightly, his throat a raw patchwork of healing flesh.

Tristan looked pensive but unafraid, thankful that his brother had heeded the young priest's words. This was not the place and time for mortal combat. Not in these circumstances. Tristan winced slightly, as pain gnawed his calf from his own wound.

The Verbeeg withdrew almost as suddenly as they came. The drizzle subsided as if on cue. Far above a few eagles were doing peculair aerial maneuvers, Adan noticed as he finally tore his burning eyes away from the humanoids, and looked up. It was if the birds, little more than specks now, were givng Brown Borgradoc a sign or warning.

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Indeed they had, grinned Borgradoc as he peered at his trained birds far above. More travellers were coming toward the gorge. This would be a fine day for bounty, the charismatic Verbeeg smiled to himself, and pulled tighter on Dog's collar.

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

As the young ex-nobleman, now penniless, looked up into the sky, and watched the birds, he swore beneath his breath in his native tongue, a gutteral and glottal set of words. "The beasts will feed well tonight, it seems. May they need seven bites of their own flesh for every bite of anothers they take to sate their hunger." A longer thought, as Adan turned his attention towards the pack of his horse. There must be some way he could send a signal to any who approached. Some way. The Sulphurs burnt well, he knew, and wet leaves smokily, but he had no way to launch the things. A vow extorted under duress is no vow - Trigu, send me inspiration!